That the chief merit of a picture is its _truth_, is an assertion deplorably erroneous. Even in Painting which is, more essentially than Poetry, a mimetic art, the proposition cannot be sustained. Truth is not even _the aim_. Indeed it is curious to observe how very slight a degree of truth is sufficient to satisfy the mind, which acquiesces in the absence of numerous essentials in the thing depicted. An outline frequently stirs the spirit more pleasantly than the most elaborate picture. We need only refer to the compositions of Flaxman and of Retzch. Here all details are omitted—nothing can be farther from _truth_. Without even color the most thrilling effects are produced. In statues we are rather pleased than disgusted with _the want of the eyeball_. The hair of the Venus de Medicis _was gilded_. Truth indeed! The grapes of Zeuxis as well as the curtain of Parrhasius were received as indisputable evidence of the truthful ability of these artists—but they were not even _classed among their pictures_. If truth is the highest aim of either Painting or Poesy, then Jan Steen was a greater artist than Angelo, and Crabbe is a more noble poet than Milton. But we have not quoted the observation of Mr. Langtree to deny its philosophy; our design was simply to show that he has misunderstood the poet. “Excelsior” has not even a remote tendency to the interpretation assigned it by the critic. It depicts the _earnest upward impulse of the soul_—an impulse not to be subdued even in Death. Despising danger, resisting pleasure, the youth, bearing the banner inscribed “_Excelsior!_” (higher still!) struggles through all difficulties to an Alpine summit. Warned to be content with the elevation attained, his cry is still “_Excelsior!_” And, even in falling dead on the highest pinnacle, his cry is _still_ “_Excelsior!_” There is yet an immortal height to be surmounted—an ascent in Eternity. The poet holds in view the idea of never-ending _progress_. That he is misunderstood is rather the misfortune of Mr. Langtree than the fault of Mr. Longfellow. There is an old adage about the difficulty of one’s furnishing an auditor both with matter to be comprehended and brains for its comprehension. * * * * * _Ideals and other Poems, by Algernon. Henry Perkins: Philadelphia._